The Cat Who Sang For The Birds

-8-

At the comer of Trevelyan and Cemetery roads, four parcels of land met: the cemetery on the northwest corner; catercomered from that, the former Coggin acreage; : on the northeast, Boyd McBee’s farm; on the southwest, a half-square mile of woodland placed in conservancy by the Klingenschoen Foundation - not to retard the growth of the city but to promote ecologically the well-being of the residents. On Thursday morning the intersection was the scene of a well-ordered invasion. Cars, vans, and pickups lined both shoulders of both highways, and crowds streamed on foot toward the last remaining grave, where Maude Coggin would be laid to rest beside her husband. The cemetery, which had served Pickax for a century, was a dense forest of tombstones, all facing west. On a late afternoon it was a striking sight when the sun emblazoned the stones - an army of memories summed up in one breathtaking panorama. The need to extend its boundaries had concerned the city council for several years, the problem being to find land not too wet, not too rocky, not too far from the city limits, and not too expensive. Arguments in the council chamber and editorials in the newspaper had failed to find a solution.

Qwilleran chose to walk from the barn to the site of the funeral. The casket was in place, ready to be lowered, covered with floral sprays and surrounded by wreaths and flower baskets. Standing under a canvas canopy was a solemn man wearing a surplice and holding a prayer book; Qwilleran recognized him as the pastor of the Little Stone Church. Andrew Brodie, in his towering feather bonnet, looked eight feet tall, an impressive figure with his armful of pipes and shoulderful of swathed plaid. The Dingleberry brothers in their black suits were grouping the mourners: Art Center volunteers in their blue smocks; members of the Farmers’ Collective in work denims and feed caps; Home Visitors from the church, each holding a single flower. Places were reserved for civic leaders and the McBee clan. Boyd was there with his wife and three children in Sunday garb, but Rollo and his family were late.

Just as the mayor arrived, chauffeured in the official limousine, a pickup with a camper top came up Trevelyan Road and stole the show from His Honor. The three tardy McBees tumbled out, and Rollo hurried to open the tailgate. Out hobbled a string of lame, battered, arthritic hound dogs, each with a makeshift collar of twisted red bandanna. As gasps, whimpers, and sobs came from the assembled mourners, the dogs, linked by a jute rope, followed Culvert and were glad to sit when tapped on the hindquarters.

Eyes that had remained dry at the advent of the dogs gave way to tears as

the slow strains of Loch Lomond skirled about the cemetery. The service opened with a few words from the pastor concerning Maude Coggin’s lifelong love of the soil and her concern for old, ailing, unwanted animals. She was lauded as the last traditional farm wife in Moose County - working shoulder-to- shoulder with her husband in the field, rearing a family, making garments out of feedbags, raising chickens, tending a kitchen garden, baking and canning, scrubbing clothes, and doing without. Qwilleran surmised that Boyd’s wife had written it; she was a substitute teacher who wrote frequent letters to the editor.

At the end of the burial rites the bagpiper played Amazing Grace, and the Home Visitors dropped their flowers into the grave as the casket was lowered.

The mayor, council members, and commissioners were the first to depart, having spoken a few words into radio and TV mikes thrust in front of them. Other mourners were reluctant to leave, milling about, speaking in muffled voices, preserving the inspired melancholy of the moment. Qwilleran spoke with G. Allen Barter, the McBee families, and staffers from the Something. Then he walked back down Trevelyan Road, telling everyone who offered him a ride that he was walking for his health.

Actually he was walking to organize his thoughts, after the turmoil of the last few days. If rumors were true, the county was in a disrespectful hurry to grab a chunk of the former Coggin land for a county workyard. Would the City of Pickax want another chunk for a cemetery extension? And would XYZ Enterprises make a bid for the riverfront as a site for Indian Village Two? No doubt Northern Land Improvement would be only too happy to sell. Their stated intention of putting the land in “taters and beans” had been a ruse to trick Maude into virtually giving away her cherished farm. And how about their promise that she could continue to live there rent-free? That proved to be a term of short duration.

“Hah!” he said aloud as he walked. “All’s fair in love and war - and business!” Pounding his moustache with his knuckles, he wondered if the fire caused by “an overheated kerosene stove” could indeed have had another cause. There had been no wind to carry sparks from the house to any other building - on either side of the highway - yet each of the farm’s outbuildings had burned to the ground, leaving a precise rectangle of charred rubble.

Then there was Koko’s curious behavior, before and after the fire. Trying to figure that one, Qwilleran decided, could drive one batty.

He had reached the Art Center, now opening for the regular afternoon hours. There were several cars in the parking lot. He recognized the H&H van, Beverly’s small yellow convertible, and the Butterfly Girl’s magenta coupe. Partway up the lane he saw the Doonescape truck; Kevin’s crew were planting things in the meadow.

The foreman explained. “There are shrubs that will attract butterflies. We’re also putting in a puddle. Butterflies like to puddle.”

Qwilleran went on his way, thinking, At least they won’t require feeding… and won’t wake me up at five A.M.… and won’t leave droppings on my car! Perhaps that was why butterflies were so popular. The community college was giving an evening course in lepidopterology, and Phoebe could hardly paint fast enough to meet the demand. The spirit of Mrs. Fish-eye was telling him to jump on the bandwagon and write a thousand words about butterflies.

Arriving at the barn, Qwilleran first phoned the Art Center and made an appointment with Phoebe for an afternoon interview. Then he went to the library on Park Circle and checked out a book on butterflies to mitigate his utter ignorance. By three o’clock he knew the difference between a larva and a pupa, and why butterflies puddle, and how many species there are: seventeen thousand! At four o’clock he walked back down the lane.

As the landscaper had promised, there was now a “puddle” in the meadow - a large shallow saucer rimmed with flat rocks and filled with dry sand. According to the library book, it should be wet sand, but not too wet. Qwilleran huffed into his moustache. Was he supposed to carry pails of water down from the barn every day? And what if too many inches of rain fell and oversoaked the sand? The book also recommended splashing the stone rim with stale beer.

At the Art Center the collagist was conducting a hands-on workshop in the main room, but the gallery was vacant, and he took the opportunity to view the exhibit without an elbow-to-elbow crowd. He saw the totem pole he had bought, now

marked with a red dot. He saw landscapes, still lifes, abstractions, portraits, and one brilliant painting signed “P. Sloan.” In the perfectly beamed spotlight its colors virtually leaped from the frame, and two blue-winged butterflies seemed ready to take flight. The label read: “Brazilian Morphy, acrylic, $150.” A red dot indicated it had been sold. There were not many red dots in the gallery.

Beverly Forfar rushed into the space; no one escaped her notice. “Hello, Mr. Q. I hear you’re interviewing Phoebe. Please don’t say anything about the parrot.”

“I believe we’ll be concentrating on lepidoptera,” he assured her. “I didn’t see you’ at the funeral this morning.”

“I don’t like funerals.” She tossed her helmet of hair, every strand of which remained perfectly aligned. “Some of the volunteers went, though. They said the dogs were there. I’m surprised they were allowed.”

“They were close friends of the deceased. The mayor was there, and he didn’t seem to object.” He waved an arm around the gallery. “Good show! My compliments!”

He was less amiable than usual, being somewhat annoyed by the prospect of irrigating the butterfly puddle. If they could take care of themselves in the wilds of Brazil, he saw no reason to pamper them with stale beer in Pickax.

Phoebe Sloan was concentrating on mixing colors when he entered her studio, leaving it to Jasper to greet him in his raucous voice: Hi, knucklehead! Got any dirty pictures? Ha ha ha ha ha!”

The artist jumped up and threw a blanket over the cage. “Naughty boy! Go to sleep! … Isn’t he gross? Come in, Mr. Q, and sit down. Sorry they don’t give us decent chairs. Do you mind a stool?”

“Do you mind a tape recorder?” he countered as he set it up between them.

“I’d rather not have it, if it’s okay with you,” she said, beseeching him with her lustrous brown eyes.

“No problem.” It saved him the trouble of taking notes and insured accuracy, but…

“What do you want to talk about?” she asked.

“Your paintings. Why do you specialize in butterflies?”

“I guess because I’m thrilled with the variety of hues. I love bright colors.” She flicked the collar of her tangerine blouse. “Beverly wants me to wear the Art Center smock, but it’s too dull - and too warm.” Her blouses were always sleeveless, Qwilleran had noted; they showed off her graceful arms. When she threw a blanket over the parrot’s cage, it was like a dance movement.

He was asking standard warm-up questions. “How did you become hooked on butterflies?”

“Well, I learned that collectors catch them in nets, chloroform them, and pin them in display trays, and I thought, How horrible! I’d rather preserve them in paint.”

“Did you study art?”

“I wanted to, but I’m an only child, and Dad expected me to attend a college of pharmacy for five years and then take over the drugstore. Five years! I thought, No way! We had an awful battle, but my grandmother was on my side, and we won. She sent me a book on painting with acrylics, and here I am! What I do isn’t great art, but it makes people happy, and it’s more fun than counting pills.”

“Why acrylics?” he asked. “They dry fast.”

“Tell me about the Brazilian Morpho.” “Isn’t it gorgeous? It’s the male that has those unusual wings in metallic blue. Morphos used to be used in making butterfly jewelry… Ugh!”

“I concur. What is the butterfly’s function in nature?”

“They pollenate wildflowers. Most people prefer lawns to meadows nowadays, and pretty soon butterflies will be extinct in America, if we don’t do something about it. I raise them in a box and then set them free. My grandmother sends me the caterpillars from California.”

To test her knowledge he asked some questions gleaned from the book: What do they feed on? Why do they have spots on their wings? Why do they rest with their wings together? What is their life cycle? He was beginning to feel vaguely dissatisfied with the interview. He was asking the wrong questions. She was not giving quotable replies. The subject matter failed to grab him. The stool was uncomfortable.

Finally he said, “Tell you what: Why not bring your butterfly box to the studio someday, and I’ll come back and have a look at it?”

“That would be neat,” she said. “I’m just starting a new hatch, but before you go, Mr. Q, could I ask your advice?”

“There’ll be a slight charge,” he said lightly.

“Don’t you think I’m old enough to have an apartment of my own? I’m twenty-three, although I know I look younger. My boyfriend thinks I should have a place of my own where I can paint and raise butterflies and keep Jasper.”

“Are you saying your parents object to your moving out?” It was a common family problem in Moose County.

“Well, the main trouble is… they don’t like Jake. He’s only a bartender.”

“For what it’s worth, I worked my way through college as a bartender,” Qwilleran said. “Does he have long-range goals? What other skills does he have? Has he an adequate education?”

She cast her eyes down. “Not really, but he’s going to be promoted to manager of the restaurant, and” - she giggled - “he’s one sexy guy!”

He groaned inwardly. Why were young women always asking his advice? Just because he wrote columns on everything from jazz to beekeeping, they considered him a pundit. He cleared his throat. “Some of us are grown-up at age twelve; some of us never mature. It’s not a question of whether you’re old enough to make your own decision; are you old enough to take responsibility for the outcome if it turns out to be a bad decision?”

“You sound just like my dad,” she said. Qwilleran was glad to leave and return to his uncomplicated household where family members merely tore up newspapers and talked to crows.

He was having dinner that evening with Hixie Rice, promotion director of the Something and once a neighbor of his Down Below. She had won over the locals with her energy and personality, while retaining her big-city ideas. They were meeting at the Old Stone Mill, a picturesque restaurant converted from a historic grist-mill. The ancient waterwheel, wrecked during the spring floods, had been replaced by an accurate reproduction, but it would never be the same. As the purists said, “Old is old, and new is new.”

Taking guests out to dinner was one of Qwilleran’s favorite pastimes. Tonight he was the guest, and Hixie was treating on her expense account, which meant she was about to ask a favor. For the Ice Festival she had talked him into being grand marshal of the torchlight parade in sub-zero weather, but he was saved by the freak thaw.

As soon as the two news staffers were seated in their favorite alcove, an exuberant and extremely tall waitperson bounced up to their table. “Hi, you guys,” he hailed them with the flip disrespect he reserved for VIPs. “I’ve been offered a new job.”

“Here?” Qwilleran asked. “If they want to make you head chef, I’m taking my business elsewhere.”

Derek Cuttlebrink had the height (six feet eight) and the outgoing nature that gave him carte blanche around town, and he assumed that everyone was interested in his personal life. His customers enjoyed his breezy style; young women adored him; audiences at the theater club’s productions were wild about Derek’s performances. Now, to his credit, he had enrolled in the restaurant management program at the Moose County Community College. At last he was being viewed by serious observers as a “comer” and not just an engaging clown.

“So whaddaya think?” Derek persisted. “It’s the manager’s job at Chet’s Bar and Barbecue in Kennebeck. It’s a good deal.”

“Can you handle it and still finish school?” Qwilleran asked with genuine concern, being one of those who thought the young man had potential.

“I’ll have to cut back on classes, but it’ll look good on my resume - manager of a hundred-seat restaurant, you know.”

“It depends on the restaurant. This one has an upscale menu and a certain cachet. You work flexible hours. You get good tips… . Meanwhile, I think the lady would like a glass of white wine, Derek.”

“We have an acceptable little sauvignon blanc by the glass.”

Hixie took his recommendation, and Qwilleran ordered his usual Squunk water with a lemon twist. “Just the zest, not the pith,” he requested. To Hixie he said, as the waiter left the table, “What do you know about that joint in Kennebeck? Barbecue is not my favorite food.”

“It’s a dump. I’ve been there to get ad contracts signed, and Dwight and I had a meal there once. It’s very popular, and on Saturday nights it’s really rowdy, but the food is good: mountains of pork barbecue with baked beans and coleslaw, served on plastic plates with plastic forks. The office is upstairs - also an apartment, sort of a pied á terre for Chet. He has a girlfriend, you know.”

“No, I didn’t know,” Qwilleran said.

“He invited me in for a drink. It’s quite luxurious. He can be a charming host, but he’s a hard-driving businessman. He wanted Dwight to do his public relations, but Dwight’s agency doesn’t handle politicians.”

“Why do you suppose they offered Derek the job?”

“He has a personal following,” she said. “As manager he’ll bring in customers they’ve never had before.”

Derek returned with the drinks. “Are you interested in tonight’s specials? The soup is a chilled gazpacho garnished with crčme fraîche, and the entrées are quail stuffed with mushroom and prune duxelle, and roasted snapper with étouffée sauce and spinach.”

“Give us a moment to think about it,” Qwilleran said. Instead, they thought about Derek’s offer. How would his girlfriend react? She was a Chicago heiress who had breezed in the previous summer, discovered Derek, and decided to stay. It was she who had convinced him to enroll in MCCC and who, according to gossip, paid his tuition.

Qwilleran said, “A girlfriend with a large trust fund has a strong power of veto… But never mind that. What’s on your mind?”

“The adult spelling bee. What do you think of it?”

“Great idea! I won all the spelling bees when I was a kid. I taught myself to read by studying cereal boxes on the breakfast table. I could spell ‘ingredients’ when my peers were struggling with c-a-t.”

“You must have been unbearably precocious,” Hixie said.

“Cute, too. I had curls.” Hixie hooted with laughter. “I’d love to see an early picture of you.”

“My family pictures were all lost in a fire,” he said ruefully. It was an innocent prevarication, invented on the spur of the moment. Actually, all mementos of his past had disappeared during the Black Period of his life. He had not even a picture of his mother.

He was silent long enough for Hixie to change the conversation from flip to businesslike. “Want to hear the names of our sponsors? This restaurant, the bank, the funeral home, the drugstore, Gippel’s Garage, and XYZ Enterprises, plus four not-for-profit sponsors: the Art Center, Theatre Club, Pickax Boosters, and Farmers’ Collective.”

“If there’s something you want me to do, Hixie, don’t keep me in suspense.”

“Well, we need four officials: a master of ceremonies, someone to pronounce the words, a judge, and a timekeeper.”

“I volunteer for timekeeper.”

“No no no! With your wonderful theater voice you’ll make a perfect wordmaster.”

“Why not Wetherby Goode? He has a wonderful radio voice.”

“He’s going to be emcee.” Derek, overhearing their conversation, said, “I’m going to be on the spelling team for the Theatre Club.

The boss here wanted me to spell for the Mill, but I may be gone by then.”

“What does your girlfriend think of your job offer?” Qwilleran asked.

“She wants me to do whatever’s best for me,” he said with a smile so smug that Qwilleran wished he had a cream pie handy.